


Your Driver has Been Delayed

by An_Ode



Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Girl Power, Humor, I came for baby yoda, I stayed for pedro pascal, I'm so sorry, Sarcasm, Violence, making shit up about space, this isn't really my fandom universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ode/pseuds/An_Ode
Summary: “The puck didn’t mention a fire fight.” He’s annoyed, you can tell.“But you know what it did have?” The pillar you’re hiding behind takes a direct hit, spraying debris and dust all over you. “A very specific pick-up date!”“I was busy.” He swivels around and is up on one knee to return fire in the blink of an eye.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711711
Comments: 28
Kudos: 202





	Your Driver has Been Delayed

­It’s not that you _can’t_ find other ways to get off backwater planets, its just that you can’t find _relatively safe ways_ to get off backwater planets. The whole ‘go be a Sage’ mandate always filled you with anxiety because there were no implicit instructions on how the fuck to do that.

Sure, they teach you every medicine plant, battle strategy, and cultural paradigm in the kriffing galaxy, but a simple class on how to find transport on and off planets just never came up. It was a glaring knowledge gap, its existence an ich you can’t quite scratch. After the life you’ve lived, it’s one of the only things that elicits physical, heart racing anxiety.

So you find a work around. Greef Karga just laughs at you now, passing the puck along without comment.

For the most part, the next four bounties go about the same as the first. He still cuffs you, which feels like a spiteful move from a seemingly unrufflable warrior. But the pattern remains: He crashes in, blaster raised and hauls you back to his ship. After dropping you in the co-pilot’s chair, he does his impressive display of switch flipping and you’re suddenly in hyperspace. By the time you’ve arrived on whatever planet you need passage to, you’ve fished out some random relic, trade secret, or the location of something worth his effort.

You talk more, he talks less. You ask questions, he dodges them. You pay him in random shit, he takes it. It’s all very civilized.

Until the fifth ride around, when he is _three fucking days late_. You’d put a very narrow time frame on this bounty. Specifically because you had maybe, in some inadvertent, very not on purpose way, helped overthrown a regime of extremists on this stupid, backwater planet.

“The puck didn’t mention a fire fight.” He’s annoyed, you can tell. Not that his tone is any different than your nearly one-sided conversations on his ship.

“But you know what it _did_ have?” The pillar you’re hiding behind takes a direct hit spraying dust and debris all over you. “A very specific pick-up date!”

“I was busy.” He swivels around and is up on one knee to return fire in the blink of an eye. “You ever going to fire that?” He’s not even looking in your direction as he disses your lack of combat skills.

“I’m more afraid of the ‘popping up and getting shot’ part of this scenario.” Another blast hits and your hiding spot is shrinking a little too quick for comfort.

Looking down you try to track the events of the day, but they’re all out of order, a jumbled thing the adrenaline in your veins won’t allow to be untangled. Tears, scratches, and more blood than you want to discuss is splattered across your clothes.

There’s a pause in blaster fire and before you can think it through, you spin and fire. Your hands shake only slightly, breath a bit of a stuttering mess as you return to the relative safety of your pillar. This pillar is your best friend, the closest thing you have to family. You’re never leaving this pillar.

“What were you even aiming at?”

“This is a high-pressure situation; I was aiming to look useful!” Another spray of blaster fire drowns out his response, which was surely insulting in various shades of monotone.

As you rummage through the rucksack at your side, the now chaffed skin of your wrist burns like hell. That one is entirely the Mandalorian’s fault. The wire he’d shot from… somewhere, you weren’t quite clear where he hid things on his person, had torn at the skin enough to leave an angry red mark around your entire right wrist. To be fair, it had also saved your life. A smoking hole where your head had been before the Mandalorian had pulled you across the room and into his chest a clear indicator.

“What is that noise?” You look over at the crouched form of your, _late_ , ride before tilting an ear and listening harder. It was distant, a gentle roar moving progressively closer. A smile tears across your face as it clicks.

“Reinforcements!” You holler the good news at him before the roar comes to a crescendo. It’s a cacophony of voices, indiscernible battle cries that signal the arrival of the local village militia you had spent the last six weeks spurring on. Excitement flows through you, adrenaline doubling along with your heart rate. You’re up and running straight into the chaos of battle before your mind can catch up.

It’s all a blur, as most of the day has been. Smoke and dust cloud your vision, eyes wide and watering as you search out the leader of this rebellion. You can just make out long black hair, streaks of grey running throughout, as she swings a sword, like an actual _fucking_ _sword_ forged from nearly indestructible phrik.

She is glorious, embodying everything you knew she could be the moment you met her in the market nearly two months ago. Under her rousing leadership, the battle ends quickly, the last few of the regime scattering as the tide turns against them. You’re out of breath, and out of shape apparently, drenched in sweat but smiling like a madwoman.

“And you wanted to scurry away so soon.” Venussia Ortis stands triumphant, a gleam in her eyes you’d coaxed out from some far locked away place.

“My ride was late.”

“Like I said, I was busy.” Holstering his weapon, the Mandalorian strides forward and stops at your side. His head inclines to a proud Venussia. “Thank you.”

“I could not allow my Sage to perish,” she says, voice fond but firm. You smile wide, ducking your head down and clearing your throat to regain composure.

“Gorg has even less muscle now. He’ll lick his wounds, try and regroup. It should give you enough time to round up the last of them.”

“I thought you said strategy fell to me and mine now?” The quirked brow and good humor has you releasing a laugh you desperately need.

“That was a freebie,” you toss her way, eyes alight from the battle and its subsequent victory.

“Your sword, it is impressive.” Of course the thing he brings up is what weapon she uses. There is an eye roll, and then there is a _soul roll_ as your whole self embodies the act. You watch on as Venussia shows the warrior her weapon, story of her family’s lineage and its meaning slipping out in clipped sentences. As their conversation dwindles, you feel the air shift.

It is time to leave.

Feeling the smile on your face slip into something more subdued, more pointed, you straighten your spine. Moving forward, a sense of utter peace washes over you as you clasp forearms with the warrior before you. With a deep breath, you look your first, true Chosen in the eye and begin. _“Si vulnus ne occidas ne debellaret vulneret an ne debellaret pacificare si ne extendas manum tuam prior te donec extenderetur.”_

Stepping back to stand beside the Mandalorian, you nod once and turn around to make the dramatic and mysterious exit that seems to fit in this scenario.

“Razor Crest is this way.” You about face, the angle of his helmet is cocked in a way that feel inordinately mocking. The man ruins everything.

It isn’t until you’re strapped into the co-pilot’s seat and clearing the planet’s atmosphere that your start to complain.

“You cost me not one, but _two_ dramatic and timely exits you know,” you mutter absentmindedly, attention more on the bruises slowly appearing on your wrist. Piecing together the memory of how it came to be, the scene slowly unfolds in your mind.

You had just stepped into the cantina in town. It was a small place, easy to dismiss, but the staff fairly clean and the drinks almost strong. Rounding the bar, you smile wide for Fedic, a man in his early forties and balding far before his time. It was probably the stress of this planet

“You got any of that Jawa Juice?” You haven’t even had the chance to sit down before the rumble of angry voices crash in through the door. Both you and the owner turn to look as a handful of punks from Gorg’s gang stride in. Their eyes find you almost immediately. You must be the luckiest girl in the galaxy.

“I know you,” he must be the leader of the rag tag bunch, a nasty scar running down his pig like face. You’re far to tired to remember the name of his race, so he is immediately dubbed _Miss Piggy_ and you move on.

“I’m sure I’ve never had the pleasure,” you reply back coolly. The normal niggle that tells you to sleep a full blow roar at this point. After you’d taken the citadel two days back, you’d caught maybe two hours.

“You helped that bitch Ortis!” Damn you, Miss Piggy.

You turn to Fedic who looks minutely concerned, more so for his poor cantina than your life you’d reckon. All you wanted was a drink to take the edge off and then fall face first into bed. There was a cot in the back room of a potter’s shop who’d promised it to you until your ride made it planet side. Was alcohol and sleep all that much to ask?

“You fight against Gorg, you die,” heavens help you, the snort you let out leads to a full-blown laugh, eyes prickling at the cruelty and ridiculousness of the universe.

“I think at this point its you fight _for_ Gorg, you die. Going off your gang’s mortality rates these days, anyway.” Noticing Fedic has placed a drink near your arm, you lift the glass, take the shot and draw your blaster in one fluid motion.

You don’t remember much after that, there was some rolling around on a dirty floor, blasts exchanged, you’re pretty sure you hit someone, or at least that’s what you tell yourself to feel less utterly useless.

You pop up to take a shot at the one half uncovered in the doorway when you feel something wrap around your wrist. Instinct has you looking down with furrowed brows. It’s also instinct that has you letting out an undignified _yelp_ when you find yourself flying across the cantina, wrist leading the way.

The second you make impact with something hard as hell, an arm encircles your waist and flips both of you around. It crowds you, surrounding you bodily as it bends you nearly in half. Looking down, tarnished and dull armor in flecking maroon fills your vision. The distinct sound of deflected blaster fire rings out and you look over your shoulder to see shining naked metal. A zing runs up your spine.

“You’re late!”

“You’re being shot at.”

And so it went.

At least it’s only slightly fuzzy, unlike some of the memories swimming around in your skull. Wincing at the renewed pain running circles around the skin below your fingers, choice words and expletives roll like a wave from your tongue. Its in the middle of an inventive list of adjustives, more unflattering than probably deserved, that he cuts in.

“What did it mean?” You look up, confusion clear and he clarifies. “When you were parting ways with the woman, what did you say?” His t-visor is boring into you, the harsh lines of the helmet stirring suspicion in your gut it hadn’t before. It was probably the question.

“Last ride you told me to cut the Q&A,” you lean back in the chair, arms crossed over your chest defiantly. “No one likes a hypocrite, Mandalorian.”

When he grunts in annoyance and swivels in his chair, you smile in victory. The rush of delight from winning a verbal battle helping to distract you from a sub-par performance in the cantina and everything that came after. It wasn’t as large a knowledge gap as travel but combat, in its physical manifestations, was taught only briefly.

Looking lazily at the back of the Mandalorian’s chair, you feel a pressing need to apologize for existing. Perhaps you should be thankful he came at all. Turning to look elsewhere, you feel the burn of tears come unexpectedly, embarrassment rushing in right after it. Right, you need a distraction.

“It’s… it’s a proverb I learned years ago,” you begin, noting how his chair turns slightly but he remains facing forward. “We are taught of every war, every battle. How to trick and deceive, how to find a weakness in anyone we come across and exploit it. Some of it never sat well in me, so when I read this proverb, I grabbed onto it.”

“What is it?” He’s facing you now, shoulders hunched. It is the first bit of interest he’s expressed since your first bounty with him. There is something oddly endearing about his curiosity, a trait you know well within yourself.

 _“Do not kill if you can wound, do not wound if you can subdue, do not subdue if you can pacify, and do not raise your hand at all until you have first extended it.”_ To your utter horror, your voice wavers at the last bit, caught in memories long buried in the back of your mind.

Footnote in a tomb thicker than your forearm, it leapt off the page like a snake ready to strike. At ten and four, orphaned, terrified, it had felt right. Sages were known for their objectivity, for never allowing their personal beliefs or principles to interfere with what was best for their Chosen. It manifested differently within the Coterie of Sages, the clan that took you in.

The stories of Sages past were complicated and unclear. A people whose core tenant was moving silently, staying invisible and never remaining once the Journey was complete assured muddied histories and half-finished stories. The tales you heard were oral stories shared by your mentors.

They spoke of those who changed the tide of wars, that saved whole planets by placing the right word in the right ear. Some were cruel, unencumbered by the atrocities they committed in the name of their Chosen. Others would not journey from the halls of their ancestors, afraid of worlds beyond and the decisions they would have to make.

“Yes,” the modulated voice makes you jump in your seat, eyes flying to the tilted head of beskar.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I have hair under here.”

You stare for a full ten seconds, the words taking longer to register as shock slows your brain. And then they do. Laughter, loud bounding peels of it, shake you to the core. It comes pouring out from some deep, long forgotten place inside of you. Through the tears now blurring you vision, you think you see a shake in his shoulders as well. You can’t be sure though; you’re shaking enough for the both of you.

“If I ask you what color, would you have to kill me?” You finally get out between stuttering breathes.

“Yes,” he deadpans. It’s becoming more and more comforting. The man had the indifference of Sage, you’ll give him that.

Weirdly enough, the remainder of the journey there is, dare you say it, idle chatter. You ask about his last job, making a few suggestions on how he could have done it better, and get a snippy reply you cherish. He asks you about the villagers, the woman with the sword, why so many people want you dead.

It’s all the more an enjoyable journey for it. He is the first and only Mandalorian you have met. Brushing up on his culture when you first considered the wild idea of a self-bounty, you find having a living being who embodies their dogmas to be much more compelling than the theoretical.

“No cuffs this time, I like it,” twisting your wrist around, noting the skin coming in dark purple.

“Got distracted by the blaster aimed at your head.”

“Thanks for that by the way,” your face pinches when you poke the injured skin. “I’ll take a few bruises over a blaster shot through the skull.”

You’re approaching the bounty puck’s specified delivery location, and a part of you is sad about it. Like a solar flare, you don’t know when such a talkative mood will rise again in your hired Mandalorian. Perhaps never. There’s nothing for it now, you’ve arrived.

The Razor Crest lands in the middle of nowhere. The sky is a light green, ground covered with a grass-like plant in a shade of stark white that can burn your skin when reflecting the three suns overhead. You feel some relief, the connections you have here are more primitive in their culture, but highly meditative. They leave you alone, more or less, and you’re thankful for it. Six weeks of pure human interaction drains you.

When you shuffle down the ladder first, the Mandalorian is following right after. In a bit of mischief, you smack the button to lower the ramp with more force than necessary. Turning towards him, you throw him an amused look, the action a callback to that first bounty.

“Touchy,” he cracks, and you smile so wide it nearly hurts.

Hands itch to wring as the two of you walk down the ramp, you aren’t sure what to say past the payment you’ve left in the cockpit. This time, much to his chagrin, it’s a pile of rocks. _Mirkanite_ you tell him, a very valuable pile of rocks. There’s a forge on a planet near Nevarro that will pay handsomely for it.

“Thank you, again,” you begin. “I’ll be in touch… well, Kargen will be in touch if you want to get tech–” He thrusts his hand forward, cutting you off with the gesture. You look down at his hand, fingers curled in around something in his palm, then back at him, silent question clear on your face.

“All a bounty hunter has is his word and reputation. Stop inflating mine.” It’s like a physical blow. The juxtaposition of your longest conversation to date followed by this cold dismissal giving you whiplash.

“I–” clearing your throat and forcing a blank look on your face, his extended hand is forgotten entirely. “Of course, I apologize. You’ve seen my last bounty puck, Mandalorian.” You turn to go before you can embarrass yourself any more than he already has. Two steps taken and he’s calling you back.

“Sage,” you stop walking but don’t turn around. “You may find hailing a ride is easier with a direct comm. Less hassle than going through the Guild.” You spin around in surprise. “You’re inflating our numbers. No one wants that.”

“Of course not, reliable data is all we really have in this vast galaxy.” You match his tone– mostly deadpan with a current of humor running beneath it like tectonic plates shifting quietly in place.

Retracing the two steps taken, you stop directly in front his still extended hand. When his fingers uncurl, a small black oval greets your vision. It’s an old model, not the most reliable of tech, but older means less traceable, so you’ll take it. Before overthinking it, you reach out and snatch it from his palm.

“Right, well I’ll try not to call when you’re busy.” You watch as the helmet tilts to the side and choose to believe it’s a sign of amusement.

“Hm, I’ll try and make it before another cantina collapses.”

“Excuse me, it was barely damage in that fight!”

“Because I got us out the back door in record time.” He fires back and you’ll be utterly delighted by his indulgence in verbal sparring after you’ve triumphed in it.

“Record time, huh? That’s what you do in your free time, clock how long it takes you to walk through a door? We need to find you a hobby.” A muffled sound comes through the modulator and you freeze when you realize it’s a laugh, or a huff. Noting the slight head shake he gives, you conclude laugh. It fills your chest with a light feeling you haven’t felt in years.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he’s backing away, and your smile hasn’t left your face. Before he makes it up the ramp, you yell out one last thing.

“I hear knitting is nice!”

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all. I just... Why am i here? I will be saying this from now on, but here we go: Star Wars is not my normal fandom, I know next to nothing about the wider universe. I will be making so much shit up, please be kind to meeeee.
> 
> Also, y'all KNOW that quote is from Wonder Woman, slight alterations but her's none the less. Bless her and her good works of taking men down the world around.


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